


Between the Emotion and the Response

by latinaeinstein (oneforyourfire)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 23:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16820281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/latinaeinstein
Summary: This is the way the world ends





	Between the Emotion and the Response

**Author's Note:**

> 2014 fic
> 
> cw: ninja!sutao, implied but unrequited!xiukai, past!xiuwoo, girl!yixing, post apocalyptic angst lite™, title from ts eliot's "the hollow men

Minseok meets Lu Han as the world is ending.

He’s a stranger, a _clinger_ , an opportunist. A long, pale, thin arm twining suddenly, tightly with his own, fingers wrapping around his wrist, warm and trembling, but persistent. And Minseok can feel the calluses catching along the latex of his gloves as the man squeezes too hard, stumbling behind him, speaking loudly, in deceptive familiarity. “Please,” he begs in a whisper. “ _Please_.”

And there are masked throngs of people, panicked, suffocating, stifling, moving fast, moving desperate. They wheeze, flail, grip, too.

Minseok’s own mask is damp with his breath, his body weaving quickly as he tries to shake the man off. Race towards his safe haven. Towards familiarity. But the man is strong. He’s tall. He’s determined. So Minseok just moves faster, breathing hard through his mouth.

Somebody collapses, convulses. Another screams. And Minseok swallows down the urge—the instinct—to bend down, to _help_.

(He will in other ways, he promises himself. Because he already _knows_. They’ve _known_.)

But the blood is so _red_ , so _stark_ against the weathered concrete.

The hand around his wrist clenches tighter, fingernails biting into latex, biting through to _skin_.

Minseok chokes back a sob as he crashes against a body—hard, solid, terrified, too. He falls back, and it’s suddenly the man tugging him forward, fingers gripping almost painfully as he hauls him.

Minseok gasps, protests for a beat, but the man just drags him harder. Minseok’s shoulder collides against his back. But he guides his steps easily, and Minseok watches him bob through the tangled, terrified mass of limbs. There’s a scream—a crescendo of screams, cacophonous and overwhelming—and Minseok skin breaks out in goosebumps, steps stuttered, clumsy.

“Come _on_ ,” the man urges. “We have to— _you_ have to—”

And Minseok fumbles with his key card. Punches in his code. Scans his fingerprint. Careful to slam the door shut before anybody—besides the man—can step inside.

Minseok is 27. An intern at the National Institute of Health, Center for Infectious Diseases.

He’s mid-dissertation, oldest in his cohort. Red ink bleeding on his fingertips. Soft hands. Soft voice. Soft eyes.

Mentor. Unofficial leader. Hyung. _Dad_. Hair musser. Clothes Righter. Compliment Giver. Hand Holder. Worry Soother. Paper Grader. Coffee Retriever.

He’d been shaky from the first pangs of caffeine withdrawals, cajoled into a coffee run— _iced_ , oppa, please—at noon.

It’s a Tuesday. In the middle of July. So ordinary. Too ordinary. The heat of summer sweltering, pressing tight like a jealous lover, wet and insistent against the hollow of his throat. Itching against his skin.

And they _really_ have a lot of work to do. What with the summer flu, summer bugs. What with the sudden fever spikes. What with overflowing hospitals. Patients with wracking coughs, flushed faces, blood-stained lips. Unidentified strain. Dangerous. Pressing.

But Zitao had pouted and Jongdae had widened his eyes and Sehun had clasped his hands and Yixin had given him this small, pretty, dimple-peeking smile, eyelashes fluttering persuasively. “Please, hyung, please. You _love_ me, hyung,” Tao had whined. “ _Please_. And we’ll be here when you come back. Just _please_.”

And it’s a mutual sort of indulgence.

Because they _do_ need their coffee. Honestly. They’ve been working so _hard_.

And because the cute barista. The one who might or might not be into boys. _He certainly_ looks _at you like he's into boys, hyung,_ Tao jokes in slurred Korean, _looks like he wants to slather you with cream cheese and spread you across his bed_. (Tao needs to work on his dirty Korean). The cute barista that Minsek spends an inordinate amount of time thinking about, gloved hand trembling as he mixes cell cultures. Because just the thought of what his mouth with taste like—probably coffee, probably whatever lip balm is always gleaming of those puffy lips. Just the thought of those wide, tan fingers dancing over the buttons of Minseok's lab coat, dragging wide to whisper along his navel, tease over his zipper. Movements all fluid and sleepy and perfect, voice all husky and filthy as he leans down to pant into Minseok's ear. Just the _thought_.

But he left that barista at the coffee shop with nothing more than a lingering smile. And he spilled the coffee in the struggle, the fray back. And he managed to snag a clinger in the form of man— _boy_ , really, thin, pretty, with an obnoxious shock of pink hair.

And they’d—they’d _moved_. Tao’s rings—expensive tokens from a very rich, very special, very indulgent Joonmyeong _noona_ — are still resting on the counter. In their designated “Put Away” box. Just like Yixin’s lip balm. Jongdae’s cellphone. Sehun’s iPod.

And Minseok doesn’t know what to make of it. But there’s a sudden lurch in his chest. A painful clench in his throat. A rush of blood to his head. He—oh _God_ —he—

Minsek presses a hand to his chest, tries to breathe past the sudden tightness. But he’s imploding.

_ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod_

Outside, there are sirens. There is blood. There are convulsions. There is death. There is _wrong_.

And there is the man, arms heavy at his shoulder. Touching like he’s allowed to. Like he’s earned the _right_. Comforting— _succeeding_ —like he _knows_.

Minseok wheezes, and the man’s hand claps against his back. Minseok stumbles back, out of his grasp, hip crashing against the counter, upturning Zitao’s rings, Yixin’s lipbalm, Jongdae’s phone, Sehun’s iPod.

_ohnoohnoohnoohohnoohnoohno_

“Breathe,” the man soothes, voice gentle, but fingers firm.

But realization burns in his throat. Tears its way out of his mouth in another sudden gasp for air.

And the world is ending. He knows. He _knows_. On a fucking _Tuesday_. In the middle of July. When he’d had vague dinner plans with his parents for Friday, when he’d  
set aside ₩20,000 to refill his subway card, when he’d fucking planned on stopping by the grocery store on the way home to buy strawberries. Maybe downloading the latest episode of the new MBC drama. Maybe taking a long, long shower, jerking off as he indulges more fully in the thrilling fantasy that that maybe-into-boys barista always inspires.

_ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck_

And there’s the solid press of a counter to his back, the solid pressure of his hand clenched in another’s, the solid, heartbreaking assurance that things aren’t right. Will never be again.

It feels like an end. It feels like _the_ end.

And the _man_. A stranger, a clinger, an opportunist smiles at him. Gentle, tight, strained, eyes trained on his. “It’s okay. Hey—it’s going to be okay. Just look at me, okay? I’m here. I’m here for you. My name is Lu Han,” he tells him softly, thumb brushing against his knuckles once his breathing has calmed down, once his head has stopped feeling too heavy, once the white noise has cleared.

Minseok sucks in a deep, shuddering breath, and Lu Han’s eyes are so soft. And he fucking _hates_ it. He just—his _friends_ —

Lu Han drags him forward, warm, but firm. “Let’s—let’s sit down, okay? _Talk_ , okay?”

Minseok nods numbly, dumbly.

Even though everything is tender and fragile and wrong wrong wrong. Even though everything is broken. Even though everything hurts.

And his imagination is too vivid. Already filling in the gaps. The speckled stain of crimson against the eggshell white of hospital tiles. The crunch of riot shields against vulnerable, terrified bodies. The glimmer of broken glass littering subway terminals. Popped tires scattering across asphalt. The howl of sirens. The crescendo of a million death cries. Overturned baby carriages, flickering emergency lights, small bloody desperate hands reaching out, hoping hoping hoping beyond the horror and devastation of corpses stacked high, bones left to bleach in the sun. And his cohort—in his charge—the one he’s supposed to—

Minseok shudders as Lu Han grabs his hand.

“My name is Lu Han,” Lu Han repeats, sitting across from him on the tiled ground, long legs stretched out, fingers drumming against his calves. He shifts lazily in his clothes, shoulders rolling, eyelashes fluttering in his direction, sleek and beautiful. And Minseok watches him for a beat too long before dropping his gaze.

“Minseok.”

Lu Han’s sharp chin rests on the knob of his denimed knee. “Thank you,” he breathes. “For—letting me in.”

Minseok nods, bites his lower lip. He regards him carefully once more. He’s thin—but solid—swimming in his oversized striped shirt. But pants obscenely tight, denim stretching tellingly along his hips and thighs.

“You’re a doctor here, right?” Lu Han cocks a thumb in his direction, motioning towards the lapel of his jacket. Minseok nods, eyes jerking upwards towards his face. “There were—people were supposed to be here?” Lu Han hesitates, stumbles slightly over his words.

“My cohort—” Lu Han binks. “My friends—Jongdae, Sehun, Yixin, Zitao—”

“Chinese,” Lu Han interrupts. “ _I’m_ Chinese.”

Minseok meets his eyes.

And he’s really beautiful, this stranger, this clinger, this opportunist. Soft, wide, innocent, dark, dark eyes that seem to sparkle in the afternoon light. Dark, furrowed eyebrows. Puckered pink lips. Soft hair framing his soft face. Dusty pink. The color of pressed flowers. Faded linens.

Minseok ruffles his own black hair purposefully.

And Lu Han looks suddenly embarrassed about it, sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth, blushing softly. “I—I like being different sometimes. _Obviously_ so. Special, you know. Independent.” And there’s a halting sincerity, a soft-spoken vulnerability to his slightly accented words.

“It looks like fucking cotton candy honestly,” Minseok counters.

Lu Han blinks, laughs unnecessarily intense, unnecessarily loud a beat later.

He pitches forward, mouth falling open and eyes scrunching. _Decidedly unattractive_. His laughter is squeaky, higher-pitched than Minseok expects it to me. And his entire body shudders with it. Minseok finds himself laughing in return.

He is—was?, yes _was_ —a student, he reveals. Non-traditional, but blending in easily with the "already served" and the "saved up for a couple of years” and the “trying to find themselves” crowds. 27, like Minseok, just a month younger, but fooling most because of his bright, young face and bright, young eyes. On exchange from Beijing, he’s studying the Korean language, likes to fancy himself an almost native.

“There was a protest, and I was—” He flushes, nose crinkling, eyelids drooping. “I—ah—I was lonely. The crowds, you know, sometimes even just brushing up against strangers.”

And Minseok feels a familiar ache. Phantom pang. Remembers calling automated phone numbers just to hear another person’s voice. Going to night clubs just to bump elbows, graze shoulders.

“Did you not—did you not have anybody before?”

Lu Han curls his body smaller, drags his knees to his chest, spine curving. “I kind of had a—” he shakes his head. “It wasn’t _real_ —we just—and he—he’s out there.”

Minseok blinks, and Lu Han’s eyes feel heavy on his face. There’s that hesitance—that all too familiar wariness—of an overstepped line, a miscalculated declaration. But Minseok is quick to allay fears.

“I almost—a man, too—a barista—” He breaks off, shame coiling tight in his gut at missed opportunities, anxious promises of tomorrow. Tomorrows that _won’t_. “He’s out there, too.”

“It’s ending out there, right?” he whispers suddenly, voice soft. “It’s _done_. Out there?”

Minseok blinks slowly, but nods. He grazes his fingers along the stiff white just underneath his nose. “You—you weren’t sick?”

Lu Han shakes his head, chin tilted downwards, mouth quirked to the side, eyebrows knit. “My roommate—some of my classmates—but I didn’t—Strong genes—”

His hand claps flat against the tile as Minseok’s eye widen.

“They’re probably—they’re probably herding people like animals out there. Separating the sheep from the goats. Deciding who matters. You—you’d matter. I _wouldn’t_.”

Minseok doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. Just scrapes the heel of his palm against this cheek.

“Do you think—” he starts finally. “Maybe it’s...punishment?”

“Like from God?”

Minseok flushes, but nods. Lu Han swallows, and Minseok follows the movement with his eyes. “I think...if God is real, if we’re being punished or…” He struggles, pantomimes, sighs heavily. “Then maybe, maybe we should just take advantage of our last hours. Just _live_ while we _can_.”

And Minseok thinks he imagines a purposeful sweep of his body, the _want_ blooming in Lu Han’s eyes.

So he dismisses it easily enough, rises on shaky legs to check their provisions.

There are cots. Energy bars. Bottles of water.

Oxygen masks. Feminine hygiene products, too. Extra clothes. Sleeping bags. Fire blankets. A first aid kit. Emergency generators.

Minseok rifles easily before tossing back a trail mix bar. And Lu Han smiles at him as he accepts it.

“Our supplies aren’t as impressive because Yixin is in charge, and she’s kinda—she spaces a lot.”

Lu Han sits beside him this time. Side to side, thigh to thigh. His fingers brush against Minseok’s arm and dangerously high on his thigh as they dance absentmindedly. His head falls against his shoulder as he hums.

“Thank you,” he repeats.

And Minseok tries to pass the time. He asks him about his befores. His family. His hometown. His childhood. His first kiss. His first love. His dreams.

Lu Han asks in turn. Voice soft, but fingers firm, increasingly bold.

They curl around his elbow as Minseok talks about his pet rabbit at home. Skip at his arm as he talks about his parents, his little sister, his baby nephew. Drag over wrist as he describes _the_ moment when he first knew that he wasn’t like other boys, that he _liked_ other boys. And by the time Minseok is talking about his mentees—his _babies_ : Jongdae, who is sharp, biting around the edges, loud, but warm, tender, caring, indulgent in turn, dedicated, smart, so so smart; Tao, who is so broad, so intimidating, sharp eyes, looming frame, but sweet, soft, so dedicated, so eager to please; Yixin, who is soft words, soft eyes, sleepy approval, a too-big heart, a too-soft soul, but _fierce_ protectiveness, sharp wit; Sehun, the _youngest_ , long limbs, sharp angles, but fragile, his bored eyes and impassive face a carefully placed mask—Lu Han’s fingers are twined tightly with his own.

And Minseok doesn’t question the progression, squeezing back hard

Lu Han shifts easily to face him as he describes his first semester abroad. Recalls crying on the subway when he got lost. Ahjummas stared at him. A couple of people laughed uncomfortably. High schoolers sniggered. But it had been an elementary school kid, clothes starched, name stitched on his uniform, butchering Mandarin that had helped him.

And his eyes are so beautiful, Minseok thinks idly. Too bright, too wide, too captivating surrounded by too-thick, too-dark eyelashes.

“You’re pretty,” Minseok finds himself saying, without thinking, and Lu Han blinks. Something flits across his features. Fleeting annoyance—a tried insult— but he smoothes it away with a sudden, sad smile.

And Minseok flushes. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Lu Han laughs, calmer, prettier than his real one, Minseok notes. Just a quick exhale of breath, puffing out of pouty pink lips. “It’s not—it’s not like I’m gonna hear that again for a while, right?”

Minseok drums his fingers against his thighs. “My friends are coming back, and they’ll probably tease you about it. Jongdae—Jongdae will probably ask you go to go out with him even though he’s not into men. You’ll be his _exception_ because you’re just _so_ pretty. And Yixin—she’ll—she’ll—they’ll come back.” His voice sounds thick, pitchy. Because it's harsh. It's painful. The starkness of their new reality. And he can’t—not yet. It can’t be real yet. Not when they’re all he has. So he coughs to right his tone. “They’ll come back soon, and they’ll all coo over your eyes. Your hair. Your noise. Your lips. So _pretty_.”

“How—how soon—” Lu Han breathes, and no, Minseok isn’t imagining it this time. The flicker of want in Lu Han’s eyes, the way his eyes drop down to Minseok’s mouth—still covered—then back up.

_Oh_.

Minseok raises an eyebrow, looks down towards Lu Han’s own mouth deliberately. Lu Han’s lips part.

“If it’s ending—I don’t want—don’t want to deny myself—” Lu Han trails off, shifting, shrugging. Lithe lines, soft hums, smooth skin.

And no, Minseok—if it’s not—if there’s no—Minseok doesn’t want to, either.

Minseok’s still got his mask on, and Lu Han reaches out for it, meeting his eyes. He peels off the sides, slowly, thumbs soothing over his earlobes. And this time when Minseok breathes hard through his mouth, licking his lips in nervousness, in want, Lu Han is able to see, eyes trained on his.

There’s vulnerability, rawness there, something too deep and too intimate. A heavy, heady sort of trust.

Lu Han leans forward slowly, cups his face almost tenderly, _cradling_ it. Like he doesn’t know how to kiss without making the other person feel little and special. He tilts until Minseok’s lips are skimming against his, drags out the moment so so long. Until Minseok fits his fingers into his shirt, tugs him forward hard, parting Lu Han’s lips with the force of collision.

Lu Han lets out this soft moan, as Minseok tongue grazes against the seam of his lips, deepening it almost as soon as they meet.

It’s slick and fast and hard, Minseok makes _sure_ of it. Tongues curling, teeth nipping, moans falling. Frantic, urgent, frenzied. Deep. So deep. Fast. So fast.

And Lu Han pushes forward, chest brushing against his, before falling forward on his lap. He rolls down insistently, lets out this breathy, wanton moan.

“I want to have you,” he intones suddenly, against Minseok’s slick lips. “I want to _take_ you. I want you to _fuck_ me.”

Minseok’s breath hitches. He snaps the gloves off his hands to cup Lu Han’s neck, stroke at his throat. It vibrates against the pads of his fingers as Lu Han moans. And there’s a faint blush of embarrassment, of arousal painting soft against his chest, his collarbone, the apple of his cheeks.

Lu Han lifts up his arms and Minseok peels off his shirt, eyes tracing over the defined planes of his bare chest. Lithe, sleek, beautiful.

Minseok touches him then. Slow, reverent. Fingers heavy, halting, caressing along the bare skin of his sternum, and Lu Han lets out a laugh. Pretty, too. But reedy, desperate, ringing.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whimpers as Minseok grazes a dark nipple. “ _Fuck_ me.”

Minseok’s first time in the _before_ —because this is definitely an _after_ , this is definitely a turning point, this is definitely an end—had been sophomore year of college. A slow, awkward buildup over 3 months of fleeting touches, heavy kisses, meaningful gazes culminating into something hot and beautiful in its messy awkwardness, in its stilted rawness. The sensations had been brand new, overwhelming, and Minseok had gasped loudly into Dongwoo’s mouth, dragged red lines down his bare sweaty back. As the younger had laughed breathlessly against his lips, apologizing for every too-hard thrust, every less-than-perfect angle. And Minseok had kissed him quiet, tangled his fingers in his hair, rolling his own hips up, urging him harder, but deeper, smoother. He’d come fast, heavily, in stuttering spurts across his own stomach, with Dongwoo’s hands curled around his cock, and Minseok’s own tongue curled around Dongwoo’s name.

And there had been a certain poetry in a it. A certain realness to that very first time that Minseok treasured.

But this, this in the _after_ , in the _during_ is too jarringly dissimilar.

It’s frantic, needy, desperate. Wet, hot, insistent. Eager.

Minseok hasn’t been playing with the idea of it for weeks, jerking off in the shower and gasping Lu Han’s name in the steamy air as he imagines teeth scraping along his neck, lips dragging along his trembling skin, fingers clenching around his hips.

And it’s less than ideal. It’s a negotiated intimacy.

Lu Han is _new_. Lu Han is _foreign_. But Lu Han is here. And Minseok wants and is wanted in turn.

And there’s need. So much need.

They tear at clothes. Map skin. Bruise lips with hard, hard, kisses. Minseok thanks Yixin’s foresight as he rummages for condoms, for lube.

And Minseok thinks briefly of the CC TV, the fact that his the rest of his cohort, his lab group, his _friends_ will be back—hopefully, please please please—but then Lu Han is dragging the head of his cock against Minseok’s tummy, smearing translucent white against his skin. The flared tip catches along Minseok’s belly button, and Lu Han moans, jerking weakly, trying to grind forward once again as Minseok secures his hips.

“You said you wanted to take,” he reminds him breathlessly, mouthing at his neck as he works him open, works him needy. Heedless of the cameras. Heedless of the chaos. “ _Take_. Fucking _take_ , Lu Han.”

Lu Han fucks down harder on the fingers pressing insistently inside of him. “Please,” he pants, clenching down. And just the thought of being inside has Minseok’s cock pulsing in latex. “ _Please_ , Minseok. Fucking _please_.”

Minseok drowns out the memory—the _fear_ of flushed faces, fevered eyes, bloody hands, the secure, stark, sure end. As Lu Han shifts to brace himself, slide down on his cock with a breathy sigh.

And it’s so much. It’s too much. But stopping, stopping is out of the question.

Because there’s a comfort, an affirmation, and beautiful, beautiful distraction in the warm press press of Lu Han’s fingers, in the wrecked pants ghosting over his lips, in each enthusiastic fuck downward. Heat, pleasure, hunger.

And it’s like he’s trying to recover a part of himself, find a solution in Lu Han’s naked, glistening body

And it’s fake, fleeting, feeble, but Minseok moans his name as he’s gripped tight, gripped urgently. And Lu Han is begging for it. With his his hands. With his moans. Dizzingly, with his words.

Lu Han undulates towards him, grinding down _hard_ , desperate, fluid. Hair sweaty, eyes glazed, dark heavy beautiful eyelashes fluttering with Minseok’s every staggering thrust upward. He grips onto Minseok’s shoulders, grazing, sliding over the bare sweaty flesh as he takes over. His fingernails bite into Minseok’s skin, and Minseok arches into the scratch with a groan as Lu Han quickens his pace, throat bobbing, jaw slack, lips open, slick, red. And _fuck_ he’s so, so, so fucking pretty. So fucking _eager_.

Minseok’s hands skitter down his sides, tightening around his hipbones, holding him in place as he rolls upward, slow, heaving, heavy, and Lu Han whimpers loudly at that. Trembles. Nuzzles. Gasps. His movements jerky, stuttered, protesting against Minseok’s bruising hold. Lu Han begs in a shaky rasp, nails scraping along his biceps. Faster please. Harder please. And Minseok relents, loosens his fingers. Lu Han sobs.

Lu Han is exquisite tightness, exquisite warmth, exquisite beauty as he drapes his arms across Minseok’s shoulders, tugs him into another kiss. Grazing lips, smooth glides, breathy pants.

There could probably be something beautiful, poetic, potent in this, Minseok thinks. Something of finding love and purpose at the end of the world. Holding onto one another as everything falls apart. And there _is_ something intimate and intense. Like his first time, his first time in the _before_. But Lu Han’s mouth is still unfamiliar and his fingers still a shock of foreign sensation and he’s still touching like he’s trying to memorize, drink in every detail. And no, it’s not quite right. Not quite.

But there are still pants ghosting over his lips, sweat-slick skin sliding against his, and _need_ —channeled, deferred—in sinuous grinds, clenched fingers, frenzied kisses. And Minseok feels overwhelmed. _Like_ his first time, his first time in the _before_. Only more acutely now because he’s desperate for the distraction, desperate to drown in sensation.

“Say my name,” Lu Han groans, voice hot, breath labored against Minseok’s neck. “ Please say my name.”

Minseok does in a breathless pant. And then again as Lu Han clenches around him. A moan tears its way out of his throat as Lu Han beings to bounce even faster. Even sloppier. Scrambling for purchase, fingers tangling in his own hair as he works himself down.

Minseok groans as he watches. _Close_. _So_ fucking close. _Fuck_ , Lu Han, _fuck_.

Lu Han falls forward, head crashing against Minseok’s collarbone when Minseok slides a hand between them to to grip him. Tight, fast, insistent. Eyelashes kissing against Minseok’s chest, Lu Han watches. He sobs loudly as he licks over the skin, limp but aching, writhing forward, fucking _starved_. He continues to roll down. In a delicious, sharp, desperate rhythm that has Minseok panting, staving off orgasm with quicker flicks, more deliberate strokes.

But he _can’t_. Not when Lu Han noses at his nipple, hot breath curling along his sweaty skin as he pants his name.

He _can’t_.

And it’s cosmic, _explosive_. Trembling in Lu Han’s embrace as Lu Han kisses his cheek, murmuring something tender against his skin. Lu Han noses until he’s kissing him again as Minseok jerks with the aftershocks. Groping, gasping, he can’t hear past the blood pounding in his ears, feel past the pleasure saturating his senses, zapping through his veins.

And Minseok can’t focus on the _before_ , the _after_. Only right now. The heat, the pleasure, the hunger of _right now_. Lu Han _right now_.

Lu Han is warmth in the after. Still hard, still not done. But Minseok kisses him back almost lazily as he goes soft inside of him. He murmurs his name, soft, raspy, as his fist tightens.

Lu Han groans.

“You have small— _fuck_ —small hands,” he notes, with a gasp. “It’s so hot—so fucking—” And Minseok flicks his wrist, drops his other hand, too, the pads of his fingers teasing over Lu Han’s hipbone. Lu Han moans his name as he fucks harder into Minseok’s grip. And Minseok manages a smirk as he taps his thumb against the tip of Lu Han’s cock, spreading the moisture as he twists, flutters the fingers of his other hand against his balls. Lu Han stiffens, jerks sharply.

And Lu Han’s orgasm is a beautiful thing. An eyebrow-furrowing, eyes clenching, nose wrinkling wonder. And there’s almost something there for Minseok as he catches his body, drinks down his moan.

The world ends not with a bang—Minseok thinks, tangling his fingers in dusty pink hair, tugging harshly back to mouth at a bobbing Adam’s apple, lick over a trembling throat, taste vibrating moans—but with the breathless whimper of a beautiful, broken, little death.

The air is heavy with the lingering smell of sex, with the damp breaths escaping their trembling lips.


End file.
